


Window Shopping

by The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, M/M, Mild Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, mildly, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2445074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting/pseuds/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh look, Sherlock, there’s someone walking past now.” </p>
<p>John’s right, too. There’s a woman making her way down Baker Street towards the tube station. </p>
<p>Then John licks at Sherlock’s earlobe and that is all Sherlock can think of.</p>
<p>(Or, in other words, Sherlock and John having sex in the window of 221b...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Window Shopping

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I have been doing instead of working on Tooth and Claw. I AM still working on it, promise. But to be honest I just needed to take a little break from prolonged angst.
> 
> So have some porn instead. :B

“Oh look, Sherlock, there’s someone walking past now.” 

Sherlock’s fingers tighten. His knuckles are already white from their grip on the window ledge and now his hands begin to tremble slightly, his nails digging into the wood. 

John’s right, too. There’s a woman making her way down Baker Street towards the tube station. Even now, even from this distance, Sherlock’s brain kicks into gear. Tonight, everything was throwing up clues for his brain to deduce. _Works in central London, heading home from working late, husband having an affair and she knows but she won’t say anything._

Sherlock loathes his brain at times like this. What is the point in all that knowledge, all that deduction, with nowhere to channel it? With no fruitful purpose, what was the point in the street, and the woman walking past, and her clothes and her badly-heeled shoes and her hair and everything continuing to shout information at him? He has been without a case for too long. 

Then John licks at Sherlock’s earlobe and that is all Sherlock can think of.

“She might look up.” 

Even with his voice barely above a breath, John still finds a way of lacing his words with intent and control. Maybe it’s his army training. Or maybe it’s the fact that he is a truly wicked sadist, and a wonderful one at that. 

Under any other circumstances, Sherlock would be able to match him, be better at it even. But now he whispers back and it sounds more like a whimper. 

“She won’t...” God, he sounds _uncertain_. He would dearly love to be able to say it was the first time in his life he had sounded that way but that would be a lie. In the games he and John played, uncertainty was an all too familiar concept to Sherlock. 

John pinches Sherlock’s left nipple, just a little harder than is desirable.

The woman is drawing closer now. Her form is briefly illuminated by a streetlight. She’s not looking up, has no reason to, and anyway she’s far too busy with her phone. She’s barely noticing what’s going on in front of her, let alone above her. She should be more careful. 

John increases the pressure on Sherlock’s nipple, using his nails now. Sherlock’s breath hitches in his throat before John relents

“You’re right.” He concedes. “She won’t look up.” He sooths the reddened mark he’s left behind with the back of his hand. Sherlock would think he was off the hook if he didn’t know John better. 

In the street below the woman is nearly level with the door of 221B. Sherlock can hear the click of her heels through the centimetre gap of open window. John rests his mouth against Sherlock’s shoulder and he can feel the other man smirk. 

“Unless, maybe, she hears something...” John rotates his hips forwards, grinding against Sherlock’s bare arse. Sherlock’s mouth opens in a silent cry that takes all of his ability to keep inside. The quick movement of John’s body thrusts Sherlock forwards and he has to change his grip, one hand now pressed flat against the window pane. The frame creaks lightly. 

The woman stumbles. She hesitates, sensing a change in the atmosphere maybe. 

No, that would be superstitious and fanciful and Sherlock is not those things. He believes in what he can see and feel and memorize. Right now that is the sight of the near deserted street and the feel of John’s shorter frame against his, John’s cock against his arse. He won’t need any help in memorizing this. 

The woman adjusts her shoe and carries on, her phone pressed to her ear now. All the while Sherlock is becoming increasingly aware of his breathing. It’s coming in staggered gasps, surely loud enough for the whole street to hear. At last, the woman turns the corner, and is gone from sight. Sherlock lets out a long, slow sigh. It is not out of relief, not really. Relief would imply that Sherlock had ever been truly worried, or uncomfortable in some way. Nothing could be further from the truth. For Sherlock is in John’s arms and that is the safest place his body or mind has ever known. 

John moves his hand around to Sherlock’s spine and strokes upwards. His touch is firm enough for Sherlock to feel it properly, more than a light caress, as he traces vertebrae with his finger tips. He runs the heel of his palm over the back of Sherlock’s neck, fingers tangling in dark curls. John is crowding Sherlock ever closer to the glass, his forehead now resting against it. Sherlock’s breath mists the window.

“Imagine, Sherlock,” whispers John, “imagine if she had looked up. Think of what she would have seen.” 

Sherlock shudders, less at what John says and more at the way his lips brush against Sherlock’s ear with each word. Sherlock’s own lips are nearly touch the window pane; a phantom kiss. 

People might say Sherlock has a vivid imagination. Certainly as a child it was said to him very often, a frequent dismissal of his deductions. But it was not true. Sherlock saw what others missed. He could walk into a crime scene and see how a murder had taken place, see exactly how two people had fought, and why, but that wasn’t imagination. Sherlock dealt in facts, not fantasies.

But now he does imagine, or at least tries to, because that was what John wanted. Because imagining that was part of the game tonight.

If that woman _had_ looked up... 

She might not have seen John at all. Stood behind Sherlock as he is, Sherlock’s taller frame hides him nearly completely. All the woman would have seen of John were his arms, his strong, careful hands, wrapped around Sherlock’s body. But she would have been able to see Sherlock in abundance. She would have seen Sherlock’s skin, so pale it nearly glows against the darkness of the flat. John’s nails had left trails across Sherlock’s torso, red fissures on a winter landscape, fault lines across fresh paper. The marks left by John as he teased and toyed with him, kissed him and bit him and licked at him – she would have seen them all. She’d have seen Sherlock’s cock erect, his body writhing, his mouth open in that silent gasp. 

Would she have been disgusted? Nothing about her had made Sherlock think she was anything other than dull, ordinary. And ordinary people would be disgusted. If not disgusted, then at least, mortally embarrassed. 

But what if...

What if she had been transfixed? She would have been embarrassed but, maybe, curious enough to push that aside. If she’d have lingered she might have been able to make out the outlines of fingers left behind on Sherlock’s hips where John had gripped him. If she had remained, was out there still, she would have seen Sherlock as he is now, pressed against the window. The window frames his body like a specimen in a museum case, drawing the eye to every last detail. She would have seen his nipples rubbed and pinched. She’d have seen John run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, seen him grab and tug, using it as leverage to get Sherlock exactly where he wanted him. John would have indulged her. He’d have posed Sherlock oh so prettily. He’d have tilted Sherlock’s head back to expose that long, pale throat and bitten it until he gasped loud enough for that complete stranger to hear. 

Sherlock feels unsteady where he stands. He has to press both hands against the glass to steady himself. John rests his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Sometimes I want the whole fucking world to see you like this,” he murmurs. “I want everyone to see. _Everyone_. People we know. People we don’t. Everyone should see how completely beautiful you are when you’re undone. All that reserve gone... I want them all to see how perfect and how utterly, completely human you are.” 

John traces patterns with his tongue against Sherlock’s flesh. He trails down over Sherlock’s shoulder blade, pausing now and then to blows lightly, experimentally, over the dampness his mouth is leaving behind. Sherlock squirms as his skin tingles. He realises John is following the lines of scars he finds there. 

“I could do it you know,” John mumbles against Sherlock’s back. “Just one photograph, one minute of film. I’d post it on my blog and then everyone would know by morning.”John places an open mouthed kiss on Sherlock’s skin. “Imagine that, Sherlock. Every client who comes to us would know. No more wondering. No more rumours in the paper. Because they would all know for sure.”

Sherlock whimpers. He feels just a hint of teeth this time as John retreats his slow and steady path back up to hiss in Sherlock’s ear. 

“And most of all, they would know that it’s me who does that to you. It’s me who gets you to this edge and then dives right off it with you. No one else.”

“T-Territorial animal,” Sherlock gasps out, making John chuckle. Sherlock is impressed with his own ability to put together coherent speech at this point. 

“Not quite. Not how you think.” He runs one hand over Sherlock’s bicep, then up his forearm, to his wrist until eventually his hand meets with Sherlock’s, pressed against the glass. John entwines their fingers. “I will never stop being in awe of the fact that you trust me enough to do this. You’ve built permanent armour around yourself and it’s me who gets to take it off piece by piece. I can’t quite believe that it’s me who does this to you, you can’t blame me for wanting to show that to other people.” 

John’s hand, the one not already laced together with Sherlock’s, flickers over Sherlock’s thigh and he is not sure if it’s the touch or John’s words that make his knees go weak. 

“John...” he starts, even though he doesn’t know what the end to that sentence will be. He wants to tell John so many things; what he has just announced to Sherlock cannot be allowed to pass without a response. But there will never be enough words to describe to John what it is he is doing to Sherlock. Even with a vocabulary the size of Sherlock’s. He has long suspected that John is bad for his thought processes. It’s at times like these when his senses dull and his thoughts derail, glitches that were never part of his system before. It should be worrying, disconcerting. But instead it is wonderful. He would rather have an hour, unintelligible and senseless, with John than an eternity alone and uninhibited. 

John leans his body against Sherlock’s, his cock shifting against the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and Sherlock is beyond words altogether. The noise that leaves his lips is guttural and desperate. It would be humiliating if Sherlock was not alien to the concept of embarrassment.

“Hush now, Sherlock,” warns John as a taxi pulls into the street. 

Sherlock does not speak but growls because silence is easier said than done now.

Unless they want to make good on John’s fantasy, it would be best if the car stuck to the usual reckless speed of cabs in London, but it’s going slow, is slowing down in fact. The beam of the headlight briefly illuminates the flat. Sherlock knows that the glare from the light outside probably means they are less visible now, not more so, but even so he feels very much like goods for show in a store window display. The car is nearly at a crawl. For a moment it looks as though it might stop right outside 221b, and Sherlock wonders if they have been seen. 

The car eventually stops two doors down and the passenger gets out and crosses to the other side of the street without glancing up at all. He must be their neighbour but his name escapes Sherlock right now. The man pauses in a doorway and reaches into his jacket pocket, searching for his keys. 

John rotates his hips slowly again, just like he did when the woman was walking past. He ruts against Sherlock even slower. Even though he is anticipating it this time, Sherlock cannot help but groan. He wants to kick John. The doctor is a menace when he wants to be. His chuckle reverberates through Sherlock’s body too as he begins to kiss and suck at the taller man’s skin again.

The man in the street is taking an extraordinarily long time to open the door. How difficult can it be? 

John doesn’t relent in his ministrations to Sherlock but does at least place his hand against Sherlock’s mouth, pushing fingers past his lips to help keep him quiet. Sherlock tries not to whine, not to whimper, not to show John that his teasing is working, that he is picking Sherlock apart minute by minute. Any longer and Sherlock won’t be able to contain himself. He’ll bite John’s hand until it bleeds or he’ll push his hand away and yell how he wants to. He’ll yell that he doesn’t care who sees, that the whole of London can line up and take a look if they want. 

Their neighbour finally finds his keys at last and enters his flat. All the houses on this street are the same. His flat is probably a mirror image of Sherlock and John’s. Maybe that man’s wife will be home and they’ll talk about their day and then go to bed and have mundane, safe, ordinary sex and never know what is going on across the street and two doors down. 

John moves his hand. A sound leaves Sherlock’s mouth along with John’s fingers, a yowl of frustration and longing. John’s hands are a wonder. A doctor’s precision, military efficacy. Despite what his therapist might say, still and calm and steady under pressure. They could ease a bullet from a wound, stop you from bleeding, put a shoulder back into joint, or pull a trigger, make you bleed, break a bone just as easily. Those wonderful, careful hands could have so many better uses than teasing Sherlock, holding him, gagging him. 

John touches his fingertips together, feeling the dampness. Sherlock’s saliva glistens. 

“You’re still going to have to stay very quiet. Can you do that for me, love?” 

Sherlock is not sure he can but he nods anyway. The answering murmur of ‘good boy’ is too perfect.

John is gentle at first, like always. Even in their most passionate, adrenalin fuelled moments, John is always careful. He will never hurt Sherlock more than either of them wants. He spreads Sherlock’s arse and tests his hole with damp fingers. He stretches Sherlock lightly, just enough for one finger first, pushing forwards so slowly Sherlock would think he was being deliberately torturous if he didn’t know better. 

John pauses. He waits for Sherlock to become used to the feeling of one finger inside him before he adds a second, longer still before he moves them. Sherlock rocks back against the movement, trying to get John to speed up. John obliges, makes his movements just a little faster, scissoring his fingers a little wider, but it is still nowhere near enough for Sherlock. He wants John to fuck him open with his fingers, hard and fast. He wants john to add a third finger, maybe even a forth. He wants John to spit into his open hand so that it mingles with Sherlock’s own and tell him that’s all the lube he’s getting.

At long last John does add that third finger and loses some of that care at last. His movements become quicker, in a hurry to move on now. He momentarily squeezes harder with his other hand, his fingernails digging into Sherlock’s palm but then he lets go, untangles their fingers completely. And Sherlock does not appreciate that at all. He whines in process, then all but sobs as John removes his touch completely and steps back. 

“J-John...”

“Shush, love, I’m still here.” 

Sherlock knows John is there. He knows John would never leave him like this. All the same it is soothing to hear his voice. It is enough to get him through the agonizing seconds while he hears John reaching for something. 

It is taking John longer than normal, fumbling around, and Sherlock suspects that is because John still has his eyes fixed on him. Presumably it is a pleasing view to him. Sherlock increases the arch in his back and moves his legs further apart. If John is looking then Sherlock is going to give him something to look at. He is posing like a cheap whore and normally John would tell him he is better than that but the low groan from behind him lets Sherlock know it is having the desired effect all the same.

Then there is a loud, plastic click, so close and so unmistakable that Sherlock shivers before the lube has even touched his skin. John squeezes a liberal amount over Sherlock’s arse. More than is needed by far. John is watching it drip its way down to Sherlock’s thighs without wiping it away. 

When at last John’s touch returns he smears the lubricant with the palm of his hand, spreading it further. He circles Sherlock’s hole, where it is needed, but he doesn’t stop there. He follows the line of Sherlock’s arse down between spread and waiting legs. Sherlock gasps as John cups his balls. It is not a touch he had been expecting but he has to fight not to rub against John’s hand like an animal in heat. John squeezes lightly before running his hands up over Sherlock’s butt again. He even gets the gel on Sherlock’s hips, his lower back. Clearly he likes the whorish look tonight and Sherlock is happy to oblige. He wriggles his hips, rutting back against john’s hand. John sinks his nails into ample flesh with another groan. 

“If they saw you now, Sherlock...desperate thing...you poor, sweet, needy creature...” 

John’s patience – famously endless when it comes to Sherlock, even more so when it comes to teasing him – is finally cracking. This time he is quicker with his fingers, only thrusting in and out a couple of times to make sure Sherlock is stretched fully. 

He replaces his fingers with the tip of his cock and Sherlock has to bite his lip to keep from yelling in triumph and relief. 

“Mmh...” John moans behind him. “Were you going to shout just then Sherlock? Forgetting yourself were you? Going to scream like you do when we’re in the bedroom?”

_Yes_ , Sherlock wants to say. Yes, if that’s what John wants he’ll scream the place down. Hell, at this rate, he’ll even fucking ring Mycroft on speaker phone so he can hear the whole damn thing if John will just _get on with it_. 

But oh _god_ is it worth waiting for...

John’s thrusts are slow and measured to begin with. He drives deep with each one, sure to ease his whole length inside Sherlock before pulling back again. Sherlock wishes it were a mirror, not a window he was looking into. If he focuses on the glass he can see his own reflection, just. But he wants to see John. He wants to know exactly what John’s face looks like as Sherlock clenches around him. He wants to see John’s eyes wild, his pupils blown wide. 

When John begins to thrust harder at last Sherlock closes his eyes altogether. Someone should be keeping a watch on the street but in that moment it can’t be Sherlock. Let John keep watch, or not, as the case may well be. Given how John is nuzzling against the side of Sherlock’s neck he is paying less attention than Sherlock. But the detective finds he cares very little. He even stops suppressing the little gasps and whimpers that he longs to make. 

If anyone is out there, let them hear. Any of the cars that passed could stop and watch the show. He no longer cared.

John’s hands fit easily over the ready-made bruising on Sherlock’s hips; he is a creature of habit after all - more creature than man when he gets like this. His hands fit even better around Sherlock’s cock, stroking him when he is already so hard it is nearly painful.

Sherlock once stood beside this very window as an explosion rocked the street. He’d been thrown to the floor amid smoke and broken glass. Now he would not mind some repeat of that. He wants John to fuck him so hard that the frame cracks and the window shatters. 

Sherlock comes with a shout that is at least loud enough to wake Mrs Hudson in the flat below them. 

He is surprisingly disappointed when he opens his eyes again and finds the street as empty as it was before. 

~

For a long time afterwards, Sherlock and John just sit on the floor of the flat beneath the window. Sherlock leans back against John’s bare chest; one hand rests on each of the doctor’s legs spread either side of him. John keeps starting half formed sentences about how they should get up, go get washed and into clothes, and that their bed is probably warmer and comfier than the floor. Sherlock finds he is quite comfy here, thanks. He has no intention of moving any time soon.

Above them a flickering street lamp still shines light through the window. A group of people walk past, laughing and talking. They don’t know what it is they would have seen, had they been just a few minutes earlier. 

If they look up now there will be nothing to see. Nobody at the window. No public display for them to ogle over. If they’re particularly observant, one of them might just see the marks left behind from where Sherlock pressed himself against the window. Ghostly after images, as though some part of Sherlock remained there still. 

But then, they’re probably just put that down to a trick of the light.


End file.
